


Lazy Mornings (Where the warmth surrounds the chill)

by TheLittlestBoho



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: sort of, there's some porn in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-11
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-16 02:12:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLittlestBoho/pseuds/TheLittlestBoho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some mornings Isaac crawls into bed with Stiles, and some nights he does the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lazy Mornings (Where the warmth surrounds the chill)

**Author's Note:**

> I set out to write porn, but accidentally mixed feelings in instead.

Isaac is warm. Not like, abnormally warm, or uncomfortably warm just…the kind of person with good circulation. It’s sort of awesome because Stiles takes after his mom and is more than a little prone to being chilly. This predisposition to a less-than-warm running temperature is part of why he’s always in layer upon layer of clothing.

It’s doubly awesome in late November, when Stiles is constantly cold, and Isaac lets himself into the Stilinski house with his spare key and creeps up the stairs to Stiles’ room. The sky will be that groggy color, the sun just as tired as Stiles is. Everything is dozey and Stiles will listen to the birds beginning to chirp and the soft ruffle followed by the thump of a belt buckle. He’ll count the steps as Isaac walks to the dresser, the shick of a drawer opening and closing after sweats or sleep pants are pulled out.

He’ll nuzzle down into the blankets and count the steps as Isaac comes back to him, crawls under the covers and chuckles as Stiles shivers.

“You should close your window.”

“That will be the night one of the wolves shows up bleeding.”

His hands are always warm when they slip up and under Stiles’ shirt, pressed firmly against his stomach even as he gives a little jump of surprise. Isaac will press a leg in between both of his, curl around him so his additional two inches let him surround Stiles. “Go back to sleep,” he’ll whisper, nuzzling the back of Stiles’ head.

Sometimes he does, just drifts off again surrounded by Isaac’s warmth and the glitter-like dust motes in the air. He’ll wonder, vaguely, if Isaac ran into his dad, or if the Sheriff had already left for work, or if he was still in bed, not working until nine or ten.

Inevitably Isaac will slink down slightly, nosing against the scar behind Stiles’ left ear – remnant from an overly adventurous hike when he was twelve. He stays there, nuzzling his boyfriends throat, fingers tracing over Stiles’ stomach until he wakes up, just enough. 

His fingers are just as warm as the rest of him when they wrap around Stiles’ cock, wrist trapped beneath the elastic of his boxer-briefs. It never stops him, not really, and he’ll slowly pull his hand up, tracing a finger over the tip. Stiles will moan, soft and breathless, lacing his fingers with the hand of the arm his head his pillowed on.

They’ll lie like that for ages, Isaac’s fingers ghosting over the soft skin of his thighs and hips and cock. His lips are the only part of him that even seem at all cold, though Stiles suspects it’s just the contrast to his tongue – warm and wet when it tastes his neck. It’s a sign he never misses, arching up enough for Isaac to push his pants down, rolling over when he does.

Stiles is the blusher of the relationship, regardless of temperature or situation. It’s only on mornings like this, tucked in to bed together, the very definition of intimacy, that rosey circles rise to Isaac’s cheeks. It makes Stiles smile; kissing him gently and sliding his borrowed sweats down. Nails are never used on these mornings, just tips of fingers over the curve of Isaac’s ass, a small smile on both their mouths. 

The first kiss of the morning is always Stiles’ favourite – regardless of the morning breath that had made him hide his face in shame the first time it happened. It’s always warm and open and slow; investigative and tempting as Stiles slowly starts to rock against his boyfriend. Everything is gradual on days like this, the pull and push of them together, soft and relaxed; an addition to the lingering kisses. Stiles will rest one hand on Isaac’s throat, the other on his side, while both of Isaac’s arms wrap around him – one over the birth mark between his shoulder blades and the other low on his back.

It’s usually Isaac that has the sense to slick them up, just slightly, with licked palms or the lube that usually sits in Stiles’ bedside drawer when it hasn’t been knocked under the bed. He’ll move one hand down between them, moving it over them, pulling them together in that same slow rhythm. Stiles will drop his head, just a bit, nuzzling at Isaac’s jaw before pressing a kiss to it.

Stiles likes listening to the world wake up around them while they lay in bed together, glued together in slow shifts and lazy kisses. Car doors will slam outside, feet rushing up and down walkways and crunching over leaves; every sound is so much sharper in the crisp winter air. It feels like a bubble around them, like the rest of the planet is moving and hurrying, while they stay locked away. No alpha’s or witches or hunters; no pack meetings or hurt feelings or miscommunications.

Some days Isaac will roll onto his back, pulling Stiles with him – one hand still on the birthmark, one just above the cleft of his ass. He’ll roll his head to the side, lips pressed to Stiles’ forehead while Stiles lies on top of him, still rocking together. Stiles will press his lips to Isaac’s collarbone on these mornings, taste the sweat and breathe in that Isaac smell of soap and leather and old books. It’s quickly becoming his favourite mix of scents, and he’ll moan while Isaac holds him closer.

They’ve been doing this for a long time, long enough that they can still maintain their slow pace even as their pulses pick up. Lips will press against his temple, “I love you,” whispered when Isaac first hears the thump-thump-thump. It never fails to make Stiles smile, kissing him slow and sweet and trailing a finger over a perfect triangle of beauty marks on Isaac’s arm. “I love you, too.”

When he finally cums it’s always with a broken huff of air, a low moan as he presses his face to Isaac’s shoulder. Isaac’s groan is always a bit louder, a bit more desperate, and he’ll hold Stiles as tightly as he can until their pulses start to slow again.

They shower after, sometimes together, sometimes one at a time. Isaac will laugh when Stiles starts to shiver; rubbing his feet while he fumbles into a sweater, his arms when he tugs on socks. The world is mostly quiet again, nine-to-fivers at work and college kids like them tucked into libraries and coffee shops. Isaac will make them breakfast or lunch, whichever they’re craving, while Stiles makes hot tea and apple cider, always standing as close to Isaac as he can until the day starts to warm up.

Life calls to them, eventually, part-time jobs and lectures and labs. Isaac will kiss him, cutting off a ramble or a rant, and tell him to have a good day before they get in their cars. For the most part they’re responsible, keep their phones tucked out of sight, away from the temptation of dirty texts or boredom-relieving calls. 

Sometimes they meet back up at the Stilinski house at the end of the day anyways. This time Stiles will cook, warm over the heat of the oven, while Isaac talks to his dad about veterinary school and the apartments they’ve been looking at for when his lease is up in two months. His dad will give input and Stiles will ramble, and Isaac will laugh and kiss his cheek.

“You can’t see the stars in the city,” Isaac will say at the end of it, arms wrapped around Stiles where he’s slowly moved his way to Isaac’s lap on the front porch. The insecurities are mostly gone, but some still linger on days when someone comments on the master’s program offered in LA or San Diego or Palo Alto. It’s unfounded, because Stiles doesn’t want to get his MA, at least not yet, and after three years Isaac knows this –them- isn’t temporary.

Stiles will smile though, and brush a hand through Isaac’s curls, and rest his head on his shoulder; he’ll wonder if tomorrow morning will be one of the ones where Isaac spends their whole time spooned to his back. “One more reason to stay,” is what he’ll say, and know it’s the right answer when Isaac kisses his cheek and wraps their blanket more firmly around them; slips his hands up under the back of Stiles’ sweater because Stiles is always chilly, and Isaac is always warm, and it kind of works out perfectly.


End file.
